Contention
by 0x0xLOVE and WARx0x0
Summary: REWRITTEN. You know the most you can do is to avenge them and so you do, but you cannot shake that feeling of absolute guilt. You can’t rid yourself of it. It doesn’t matter what you do, it will never go away. You know what that feels like, do you?


**Author's Note:** _This is rewritten, revised, and reposted. Mainly because after reading reviews and reading through the story again, I realized it was_ horrible._ I was very unsatisfied with it. So I went back and rewrote it - completely - not exactly from scratch - I had the other version and my notes to go from, but still. I changed the point of view to third person. It seemed to be written better that way. I'm still not sure about some things (particularly the ending) but my BETA insists that it's fine, so I'm going ahead and posting. If you read the last and enjoyed it, I hope you enjoy this even more. And if you're reading it for the first time, I hope you enjoy it and know that a lot of work went into it :) _

**Disclaimer: **_I own neither the Pevensies or Eustace Scrubb or Caspian or Narnia at all for that matter._

**Contention**

_By Fig_

He is shoved, not hard, but roughly into possibly the dirtiest, smelliest, room he has ever been in. The floor is straw and the odor is one distinctly of old, decaying fish. This, he muses, is even worse than when Peter had accidentally locked him in the professor's old woodshed, which seemed to have not been cleaned for several decades. Also, he has been shoved directly into Eustace.

Eustace whips around and scowls bitterly at Edmund, eyes filled with scorn as though he had run into him entirely on purpose. Edmund ignores this as he shrugs past him, cautiously eyeing the other prisoners who appear to be mostly Galmians and Terebinthians – none of which he knows, to sit next to Lucy who has already seated herself against one of the walls, as far away as the others as is humanly possible. She is crying he realizes as he settles in next to her, but this is no surprise to him. In fact, he had expected as much. And he knows that, as her elder brother, it is his job to protect her, to reassure her, and to comfort her if he can. And so he says quietly, nudging her gently,

"Buck up, Lu. We shan't be here forever. It will all come right in the end, just as Caspian said."

But even as he says this – even as he tries to put on the same brave, reassuring smile that Peter has so often used – he knows his words sound faulty and uncertain. But Lucy nods, nevertheless, and he knows that he's done some good and that is a comfort in itself. Lucy opens her mouth to respond, but is interrupted by that awful blighter, Eustace.

"Bloody brilliant idea, this" He states, throwing himself onto the straw on the opposite side of Lucy, his voice loud enough so that the entire room hears, "Just brilliant to go gallivanting about a foreign country all by ourselves with no sort of protection. What kind of an idiot _is he_?"

Edmund bites down on his tongue to prevent himself from snapping something rude back. Lucy sighs.

"What kind of idiots are _you two_?" Eustace snaps, "Following him. I'd have thought your father would've taught you _never_ to follow strangers like that."

"He's not a stranger! We've known him for –" Lucy attempts, but Eustace ignores her,

"Absurd. As if he actually knows _anything_ about what he's doing. We're going to rot in here you know? And it'll be _all his fault_. You know if you'd never _dragged _me into this stupid place none of this would have ever happened? We could be at home, eating supper right now. Oh, _home_. Oh, what _would_ Harold and Alberta think if they could see me now – tied up like, like some sort of _animal_…?!"

After this, Edmund tries – as I think anyone would in his type of situation – to think of other things in an attempt to block out Eustace's unending complaining. He succeeds at first, his thoughts drifting to the sea – to standing on deck and watching as nothing but water surrounds them and maybe, he thinks, _maybe_ they'd even get to fight off a few pirates like the ones he'd read about back home. He imagines the feeling of his sword hilt in his hand, the adrenaline rush as he swings it about himself, skillfully aiming for his target – a grungy old pirate who looks strangely like one of the Pevensies' grouchy neighbors, the one who used to chase Edmund off of his property, waving about his cane and swearing. But, as he moves to wrap his hands around an imaginary sword, these happy thoughts seem to fade as he feels the ropes dig uncomfortably into his bare wrists.

As he tries to shift around and make it just a _bit_ more comfortable, nearly struggling in his bindings, the room seems to swirl and fade. And suddenly the dank air is cooler and he feels so, so _tired_ and he's stopped struggling and shifting. And his feet are sorer than they've ever been and there is burning pain on the back of his calves and some even on his back. His head slumps downward with drowsiness and he catches a glimpse of his feet. He starts as he realizes he is no longer wearing Caspian's spare pair of boots. Edmund's gaze travels upwards and he audibly gasps as he realizes that the filthy room has turned, without warning, into the Witch's camp. He begins to struggle again, desperate to be free of one of his worst nightmares, when he feels someone snatch a handful of his hair and roughly yank up his head,

"No," He tries to yell, but his voice doesn't appear to be working – dried out from such a horrible thirst he has never felt.

"Ed?" a soft, concerned voice murmurs, breaking through the haze, "Ed, are you alright?"

Edmund snaps his head to his left as the leaden tiredness and pain slowly fade back to nothingness.

"Are you alright?" Lucy repeats, her voice rising in her concern, "You're _dreadfully_ pale, Edmund. Are you feeling ill? It's this smell isn't it? I know, it's positively awful but once you sort of get used to –"

"No," He tells her, shaking his head, "No, Lu, I'm fine. It's, it's not the smell…I…"

He trails off, unable to continue, as soft tears begin to prick at the very back of his eyes. He groans inwardly at this. Despite the miserable feeling that has recently covered him he will _not_ cry, most especially not in _Eustace's_ presence. He wishes very hard, and very vainly, that he could pull at least one of his hands free so that he could drag one of them across his eyes but, of course, he cannot. He blinks rapidly in an attempt to force the wretched tears away, but this only results in making things worse – worst of all, _Eustace_ notices.

"_Crying_ are we," He sneers nastily, "That's a bit pathetic isn't it? I mean I know this place is wretched and all, but really? _Crying_? What kind of –"

"Oh, _stop it_," Lucy interrupts, "Leave him alone, won't you? You don't even know half of what you talk about. You don't know all he's been through–"

"Oh yes," Eustace snaps back sarcastically, "I'm sure his life's been _so hard_ up to this point. What, Peter lock you in a woodshed again? Lucy sit on your train set? Daddy forget to write? You know, if I were you, I should be proud to have my father off fighting for our country. Harold hasn't been drafted yet, oh but I hope soon. Imagine, being right in the thick of it all. It'd be great. Of course, from what I see from your father's letters, he hasn't been enjoying it much has he? Don't know why, it seems like so much fun. I–"

"_Oh shut up_!" Edmund suddenly snaps abruptly, putting a fast end to Eustace's foolish pro-war sentiments, "You don't have any idea what you're talking about."

"Oh yes I do," Eustace retorts, "I've seen–"

"Oh, have you then?" He snaps bitterly, "You've been there, then? On the battlefield, I mean? You've fought, have you? You've watched a friend _die_ on the battlefield, right before your eyes? And, while you're watching them die you've known it's all your fault? You know that if you hadn't been so, so _naïve_ and so _foolish_ none of it ever would have happened in the first place? And as you stand there, watching them die and _knowing_ there is nothing you can do to help them, you feel as though maybe you deserved all of this? You deserve to be starved nearly to death and to sit in an ice cold dungeon, with such an icy feeling that it cannot possibly be described, and to walk for miles and miles on end with relentless whippings the entire way? You feel as though you deserve to die in their place? But since you're more intelligent than that – because _you know_ that as much as you'd like to think you are not, you _are _needed - you know the most you can do is to avenge them and so you do, but you cannot shake that feeling of absolute guilt. You can't rid yourself of it. It doesn't matter what you do, _it will never go away._ You know what that feels like, do you?"

Eustace stares at him, spluttering for something to say – presumably something snide and nasty –, quite taken aback. As he opens his mouth to say something, Edmund sharply shakes his head and leans closer to spit at him,

"No. _You don't_," and he struggles to his feet and swiftly strides to the opposite corner of the room.

He settles as far away as possible from a young Galmian, glaring at him as he passes - almost daring him to speak to him, to come closer. The Galmian looks affronted and turns away to speak to his comrade. Edmund pulls his legs to his chest, as best as one can do with one's arms tied behind his back. Lucy will know better than to come to him, will know that he would much rather prefer to be left alone. She knows that, when he is ready, _he will come to her_. But, for the moment, he contents himself with sitting alone and allows, strangely enough, the miseries of his past to overcome him – to fill him up and then to spill over. He buries his face into his knees, wishing yet again that his hands were untied. And he thinks, as a single, threatening tear makes a trail down his face, that he cannot possibly wait for Caspian to come and fetch them so that they could be off and away again on their voyage.

"_And the sooner,"_ he thinks morosely, _"the better."_

* * *

_Thank you so much for reading (again). Reviews are lovely, lovely._

_Fig._


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